Silence.—“Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall
Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year.”
Second Part of King Henry IV. Act V. Scene 3.
Germans are by English writers accused of heaviness of style and laborious dulness; produced partly by their predilection for metaphysics, and partly by their inclination towards mysticism. Martinus Scriblerus was born at Munster; and, although a German[9] has since actually discovered the materia subtilis ridiculed by Pope, the prejudices of the practical philosophers of England, and in later days of America, remain still as strong against them as ever. Every one, I believe, is willing to concede to them the greatest quantity of abstract learning; very few will give them credit for practical knowledge, and a nice appreciation of the good things of this life. I remember being once told by an Englishman that he did not think it possible for a German to tell the difference between mutton and lamb, inasmuch as both were served up in little bits at the best private tables in Germany. Such a remark offered to a Frenchman would have made his blood boil with rage, and probably have ended in a duel; but I resolved upon taking a German vengeance, and proposed writing a small dissertation on the origin, progress, and various applications of eating to scientific, sociable, and political purposes.
Eating, according to the oldest and best records, was invented in Paradise,—where we have strong reasons to suppose it constituted the principal amusement of the first man. From this we may safely infer that it was necessary to primitive happiness; although, from a singular perversity of taste, dinners then consisted merely of desserts,—that is, of a choice variety of raw fruit: the chemical process of cooking, the scientific arrangement by which thinking man assimilates and subjects the universe to his own body, was reserved for subsequent periods. The first sin was an appetite for knowledge,—the latter being communicated by the simple process of eating; which fact is still commemorated, in the shape of regular anniversary dinners, by most of the learned societies in England and on the Continent.
But eating was not long confined to learning; it extended itself gradually to all other human pursuits, and, in course of time, associated itself with politics, morals, and even religion. The Christian Protestant religion is the only one which does not prescribe a particular diet; and I have heard it asserted in Frankfort-on-the-Maine, (a place where Jews are better known than anywhere else,) that an Israelite may be considered as converted from the moment he has tasted roast pork. With regard to morality, every one knows the influence of a man’s diet on his passions, and how often mildness and amiability of disposition are chiefly the result of a particular regimen.
With regard to the fine arts, it has been observed by a celebrated French professor of gastronomy, and with great justice too, that we borrow the whole nomenclature from the taste,—that is, from the palate. What would be tragedy or comedy without the words “bitter,” “sour,” “sweet,” “mild,” &c.?—where would be your “sweet-hearts, your sweet faces, sweet voices, and sweet dispositions?” And again, what would become of your “sour dispositions,” your “bitter disappointments,” and “galling vexations?” The strongest and most lasting impressions are produced by the palate,—that is, by eating; and hence poets and common people refer to them more frequently than to the sensations conveyed by the other senses. “The pleasures of the palate,” says the French philosopher, “are the most lasting, and compensate us in our old age for the loss of nearly every other enjoyment.”
But the most important influence of eating is exhibited in politics. Here we observe, in the first place, the fact that a substantial diet in a people is, with scarcely one exception inseparable from a certain degree of rational freedom. It is for this reason principally that the nations of the North are with great difficulty reduced to slavery; while the South, more abstemious in eating, has always been more easily conquered and subdued. This rule, however, I can assure my readers, does not apply to the Southern States of America, whose gallant inhabitants are as much used to turtle as any alderman of the city of London, and as loyal as any British subject whenever they are called upon to fire a “royal salute,” or, in other words, “empty twenty-seven bumpers of madeira,” in honour of any of their celebrated public characters. As a general rule, however, it may be remarked that beef and mutton countries are the most difficult to be governed, or rather that the people of those countries are more capable of governing themselves than any other; and that a nation becomes fit for a democratic or self-government in exactly the same proportion as its diet consists principally of meat.
With the knowledge of these facts, I would direct the attention of travellers in the United States to the stereotype bills of fare they will find in nearly all the principal public houses; which, in my opinion, will best enable them to form a correct estimate of the republican sentiments of the Americans. As far as my experience goes, they all run thus:—
“Roast beef, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast veal, roast pork, roast pig, roast turkey, roast goose, roast chickens, roast pigeons, roast ducks,” &c. To which, merely by way of appendix, are added the comparatively insignificant items of “pudding, pastry, and dessert.”
For these, however, nobody cares; but the roasts generally go off well, constituting both the pith and luxury of an American table. A few aristocratic innovations on this rule have, indeed, been attempted by the keepers of some of the crack boarding-houses and hotels; but they were soon obliged to come back to the old standard of beef and mutton. Even at private parties the roasts form the principal ornament of the table; though, of late, some fashionable people, preceded by the *** minister in Washington, have attempted, though in vain, to popularize the taste for “pâtés au foie gras” and “aux truffes.”
The Americans eat cold roast meat four times a day, viz. at breakfast, lunch, tea, and supper; and hot roast beef or mutton twice, at breakfast and dinner:—hence, in spite of all the manœuvres of the Whig and Bank party in the United States to overthrow the democratic principles established by Jefferson, Jackson, and Van Buren, the latter have always prevailed, in the same manner as the quantity of beef consumed exceeded that of all other roast and boiled meats taken together. This correspondence between a man’s food and political principles was beautifully illustrated by the late Dr. Johnson, when, in his reply to the American ditty,—